


The Queen

by A_Shade_of_Her



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Drama & Romance, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:08:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Shade_of_Her/pseuds/A_Shade_of_Her
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thrór and Thráin search for a suitable wife for the young Thorin. But when a strange malady afflicts two of the guests, will it be a princess who captures the heart of the prince?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Searching

Thrór looked to his left at Thráin and shook his head as the doors of the Great Hall closed behind the entourage. Thráin nodded.

“I have no points of contention against the elvish kind,” the king said, “but I do not believe they have much in common with our kind.” His son nodded.

“‘Tis indeed a pity there is no dwarvish woman for the prince to wife.”

Thorin’s neck and face grew warm.

_Do not speak of me as if I am not here. . ._

Gundar, the court herald, came before the royals and bowed low slowly, weary from the long processions that had filled the morning and the greater part of the afternoon.

“My lord, the Lady Hulda of Rhûn.”

Thrór nodded permissively, and the doors opened again. Two dwarf guards ushered in a human woman in a floor-length velvet robe of the darkest crimson which she held up slightly as she ascended the stairs. Her hood was pulled back a bit, revealing hair the color of freshly mined bronze. A thin, black scarf was tied around her tanned face, hiding only her eyes. A small diamond pierced her left nostril in the fashion of the Far East. There were soft, bell-like chimes that sounded whenever her bare feet touched the floor.

She came to a halt, knelt on both knees, and pressed her forehead to the stone.

“My lord Thrór, King of and Under the Mountain.”

Her voice was deep and colored by a soft brogue unfamiliar to Thorin. Thrór nodded, pleased.

“Please rise, Lady Hulda. I wish to welco--”

The woman stood, her mouth parted in surprise and no small amount of horror.

“Oh my lord, I . . . I beg your pardon, I . . . I am not Lady Hulda.”

Thrór and Thráin exchanged a look.

“Then pray tell us who you are, daughter,” Thráin said, his voice deceptively level.

“I am my lady’s handmaid. My lady is ill and could not come before you as she was summoned.” She faced Thorin – unknowingly, since he had not uttered a word since she had arrived. “We humbly beg your graces’ forgiveness.”

Thráin shifted his weight and spoke quietly with his father for a moment before turning to the woman.

“Who are we addressing?”

“They call me Marrh, my lord.”

Thorin took a step towards her.

“What do _you_ call yourself?”

She gasped, reassessing them and taking a step backwards.

“Myrrh, my lord.”

Thráin snorted.

“What’s the difference?”

She looked down, her expression darkening. Her answer came softly, painfully.

“ _The_ _meaning_.”

Thrór stood, towering over her as she knelt.

“Extend our invitation to your ladyship. She and her caravan may find rest here in our halls.”

The woman touched her forehead to the ground again before rising unaided.

“I offer my humblest thanks, my lord.”

The king nodded to the guards. One touched her shoulder, and she turned back towards the door. She paused at the steps hesitantly, lifting her skirts a bit.

Thorin found himself running to her side, taking her arm, and gently escorting her down the stairs. The faint scent of her musk made him heady and being nearly eye-level with a human made him feel strong.

She turned to him, seeming to gage his presence with cautious hesitancy. He bowed, kissing her hand softly. She inhaled sharply, her arm tensing. He straightened slowly.

“My lady Myrrh.”

Her facial muscles contorted as a tear escaped the folds of her scarf. She ran towards the ornate encampment on the plains just outside of Dale, finding her footing easily, naturally. Thorin watched her, his heart pumping madly. She disappeared into the largest tent, and he caught his breath after what seemed to be an eternity. The nerves in his hand hadn’t seemed to register the absence of hers, and he didn’t wish them to. Turning, he returned to the throne, oblivious to the consternated stares of his father and grandfather.

As the other princesses and ladies filed through, he looked, but did not see.

_What’s the difference?_

He could not forget her answer.

_The meaning._


	2. A Plan to Flee

Marrh pressed her hand against her mouth, fighting to suppress her sobs. The dry air burned her nostrils as she cried.

            _“My lady Myrrh.”_

Her frame shook as she remembered the kindness of the dwarf prince.

_He didn’t know what it meant. . ._

She straightened as the adjoining tent flap was opened and Hulda ducked under.

“Marrh, whatever’s the matter?” She lifted the scarf from the handmaid’s face and raised it. “Did they hurt you?” Marrh shook her head, unable to answer. “Were they . . . displeased you went in my stead?” She looked away. Hulda stood, swaying a bit.

“M’lady, you should not be out of your tent,” Marrh said softly, guiding her to a footstool. She knelt, gently taking her scarf back. “They _did_ offer us shelter, m’lady.” Hulda nodded.

“It’s a shame we shall refuse it.”

“M’lady?”

Hulda stood, shooing Marrh away.

“Consider it, Marrh. If we accept the hospitality, we are indebted. I can’t afford to be indebted to somebody who is openly searching for a _wife_ for their grandson.” She crossed her arms and snorted. “Especially a _dwarf_.”

Heat blossomed in Marrh’s face.

“But m’lady, he was kind--”

“Of course _he_ was kind. He has to be; he’s in search of a bride. But you didn’t see him, did you?” Marrh shook her head. “Have you ever seen a dwarf before, girl?”

“No, m’lady.”

“I have.”

A dry silence hung in the air, one that was meant to be understood but was not.

“. . . What do they look like?”

“Dwarves are short, stout, stubbly and grimy creatures. All they do is mine for riches; their greed consumes them. They drink incessantly. And their women have beards, Marrh!”

She blinked.

“Well . . . the women can’t help--”

“It doesn’t matter, Marrh! We came here because my father forced me to come! I’m not going to marry a _dwarf!_ ”

“Of course not, m’lady.”

“Accepting their hospitality is tempting, but I refuse to do it.”

“But what about their healers? And aren’t the dwarven archives a worthy match for those of Gondor?”

Hulda snorted, visibly weakened by the simple act of standing.

“It matters not: we’re leaving.”

Hulda gasped and bent over. Marrh steadied her, leading her back to her tent.

“Guards!”

Two dropped their spears and carried the princess the rest of the distance. Marrh followed slowly, gazing back at the gates of Erebor.

Suddenly, her senses left her, and she fell into darkness.


	3. An Unplanned Return

Thorin shoved a pile of scrolls aside and rolled other out, scanning the lexicon quickly.

_Marrh . . . Marrh . . . Myrrh---_

A commotion in the Great Hall stole his attention and he listened. Muted references to women wafted up to the archives and he groaned.

_Hulda was to be the last---_

“Sir!” He turned to face the breathless page. “Sir . . . the Lady . . . and the . . . the other. . .”

“Who? Speak!”

“Lady Hulda . . . and the  . . . the maid---”

Thorin ran downstairs and was greeted by Easterling guards carrying two stretchers to the healing chambers. A richly dressed woman lay on the first, Marrh on the second, looking small in comparison to the others. The scarf was held loosely in her hand, and Thorin’s shoulders sank as he gently took the scarf from her. It was warm . . . _too_ warm. The guards paused and he touched her cheek softly. Her flesh was hot to the touch and she murmured incoherently, turning her face towards him.

“What is this?”

“It’s the Leeching Death, m’lord,” the captain answered from behind, towering over the dwarf.

“How . . . where did she contract this?” He glanced at the other woman and corrected himself. “ _They_.”

“They say it is the price those of noble lineage pay for their power, sir.”

“So this is Lady Huldah.”

“She is, m’lord.”

“But Myrrh is a handmaid.”

“She was not always, m’lord.”

Thorin stepped back, his mind reeling.

“I will escort you to the healers.” He turned to the page who had followed him down from the archives. “Alert my father and the king. Tell them where I have gone.”

-

“The Lady should recover quickly and without complication,” a healer murmured to the captain. He nodded.

“Very well. We shall send word to her father at once and prepare for the journey back as soon as she is well enough to travel.”

Thrór nodded in approval.

“Any assistance we can lend you is yours.”

The captain bowed and took his leave, and the dwarf king and princes were left in the room with Huldah and Marrh. Thráin turned to his father.

“It is just as well she returns to her kind: a dwarven queen needs vitality.”

“Does she?” They turned to face Thorin, seated by Marrh’s bedside.

“Yes, my son, she does. Why? Do you fancy the Lady?”

“No, sir.” He gently moved a stray ringlet from Marrh’s face. “No, I do not fancy the Lady.”

“Surely you do not desire the maid--”

“I do.” He faced them boldly. “I desire the maid because her soul calls to mine. Because she is quiet and gentle. And because she is of a noble line.”

Thrór scoffed.

“What line?”

“A noble line in Rhûn, apparently.”

“And who told you that?”

“The captain,” the prince said, standing. “He said this was a sickness specific to royalty and nobility.”

“Then why is she a maid?”

“I don’t know.” He caressed Marrh’s cheek. “But I will ask her when she wakes.”

-

“Captain, we must not linger here.”

“M’lady, you have been ill for some days. I do not think it would be wise to leave yet, as you are still quite weak.”

She turned, drilling him with a hot stare.

“Captain, you may trust me to know my own health.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

“Where is Marrh?”

“She has not awoken yet.”

“Not once?”

“No, m’lady.”

She started for the doorway.

“Take me to her.”

-

Thorin stood and bowed as the Rhûnic entourage entered Marrh’s room.

“My Lady Huldah.”

She nodded curtly.

“My lord Prince.”

Thorin looked away; he knew disdain when he saw it, and he could not fault her.

“I’m glad to see you’ve recovered, m’lady.”

She frowned and dismissed her guards.

“Thorin, you do not have to force joviality. I will be returning to Rhûn within a fortnight.”

“That is well, but I shall not cease to give you the respect a lady warrants.”

Her face softened and she approached Marrh’s bed.

“Well. Perhaps she was right to think of you differently than I.”

_She did. . . ?_

Thorin sat and took Marrh’s hand.

“What is this illness?” Huldah flushed white. “The captain of your guard said it afflicted women of noble lines; is that true?”

“My captain was mistaken.”

“Why did you recover before Myrrh?”

Huldah dropped into a chair opposite Thorin.

“It was a different illness.”

“Lady Huldah, would you kindly enlighten me?”

“My illness was nothing more than a fever brought on by the colder climate of Erebor. Naught more than that.” She glanced at Marrh. “Hers is a contagion from. . .”

“From where?”

“Oh Thorin . . . I am sorry.”

“Please. Tell me.”

“I cannot without destroying the Marrh you know.”

“I do not know Marrh. I wish to know Myrrh.”

Huldah looked at the handmaid.

“She would loathe me for this.”

“Please. She need never know.”

“She will know. You will hate her.”

“You cannot speak for my heart.”

“No.” She looked back up at him. “No, I pray not.

 

“Marrh was born into a higher estate than even I. She was thoroughly educated, trained, and domesticated. Her family was wealthy, her clan respected, and her tribe powerful. But she made a mistake: she loved a man who cast her down into ruin.”

“Ruin.”

“He _took_ her, Thorin. And when I say ‘took’ . . . I am being very impolite.”

The air sat heavily in his lungs, making them ache.

“She is faultless, then.”

“No. No, he only took what she offered him willingly.” Thorin held her hand tighter. “Her father was forced to banish her. She . . . she became what most women in similar circumstances become.”

“You mean to say a--”

“A whore, Thorin.” He flinched. “Though really, a more accurate title would be a courtesan.”

“Whose?”

“She’s had many masters, Thorin. . .”

“Whose is she now?”

“She is my handmaid now. Her mind was wasted on the boars who bought her only to have her.”

“This illness, then, was contracted while she was . . . _with_ a man?”

“I am no physician, so I cannot know, but I do suspect that, yes.”

Thorin stood abruptly, dropping Marrh’s hand.

“Are you prepared to--” he grimaced “. . . sell her?”

Huldah stood quickly, her face red and her eyes darkened.

“Thorin al’Durin, I will not allow you to further her abuse--”

“I will not, I give you my word. If she chooses to stay, she will be welcome. If she chooses to leave, she will be free.”

The Lady nodded slowly.

“Very well. My father purchased her for me, and he will accept no less than the price he paid.”

“I will match it.”

“Thorin . . . he paid 700,000 pounds of gold for her.”

“Then I shall pay him 800,000.”

“. . . You’re mad.”

“No.”

Huldah glanced at Marrh.

“You love her.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“She’ll adore you.”

Thorin blinked.

“What?”

The Lady shrugged and turned to leave.

“She will. And she will be fortunate to have your love.”

Thorin smiled.

“The payment will be prepared by your departure.”

“My captain will draw up an agreement.”

He bowed.

“Mahal be with you.”


	4. A Change of Hands

“Thorin. . . Son. . . You are not bound to do this.”

“Father, it is my portion.”

“I am well aware of that.” Thráin sat heavily in the mead hall. “Why a maid?” Thorin began to answer, but he was interrupted. “A harem is . . . _acceptable_ if that is your purpose, but--”

“No, Father, I mean to marry her.”

“And should she refuse?”

“Then . . . then she will be free to go where she wishes.”

Thráin looked up at him, regarding him carefully.

“They say she is used.”

“Yes.”

“You would sully the King’s lineage? My lineage? _Your_ lineage?”

“I would sully nothing. I love her.”

“You don’t even know the woman. You don’t even know her name.”

“Her name is Myrrh.”

“Son--”

“Father, please. Trust me to do this.”

“You understand the consequences of your actions?”

“Yes, Father.”

Thráin stood and placed his hands on Thorin’s shoulders.

“Then you have my blessing if she should choose to leave.” Thorin’s blood ran cold. “If she should choose to stay, you will build a harem. She will not be your queen. She will not bear your heirs.” Thorin clenched his jaw and stared past his father. “Do I have your word?”

“No.”

“Thor--”

“No, Father, I have promised to care for her. A harem . . . a harem would kill her heart.”

“A whore does not have need of a heart.” Thráin turned and walked away. “In fact, she’d be better off without one.”

-

Thorin sat by Marrh’s bedside, caressing her hand gently.

“I love you,” he said softly. “Please let me love you, Myrrh.” She exhaled gently and shifted jerkily, muttering. “Myr--”

“Huldah!”

She sat up, her eyes still hidden by the scarf.

“She’s not here,” Thorin said gently. She whipped her head to face him, inching away. “No, no, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Who . . . you’re – you’re the prince; what are you doing here? Where is Lady Huldah?” she asked, her voice shaking.

“Yes.”

“Where is my Lady?”

“She’s returned to Rhûn.”

“And . . . is sending a guard back for me.”

“No.”

Her tanned face seemed to pale.

“. . . No. . . ?”

“I’ve . . . bought you, Myrrh.”

She struggled against the quilt that had become tangled around her and scrambled out of the bed. Her breath was ragged and she pressed a hand against her mouth.

“You . . . she _sold_ me. . . ?”

“Myrrh, please let me explain.” She nodded, still backing away. Thorin came closer, slowly, making his footsteps deliberate for her sake. “Take this,” he said, guiding her hands to a scroll.

“What is it?”

“Your deed.” Her bottom lip quivered and she tilted her face downwards. “I want you to tear it.”

“What?”

“You’re free as the wind as soon as you tear it.” Her hands shook and she dropped it.

“I don’t understand.”

“I bought you to free you.”

Her lips parted and the scarf grew moist as she collapsed and sobbed. Thorin knelt beside her and pulled her to his chest.

“You don’t know what I am. . .” she whispered. “I . . . I am--”

“I know.” Her sobs grew louder and he stroked her hair. “I know.”

“Then why would you free me?”

“Because I love you.”

She pulled away slowly.

“I have not known your kind of love for . . .” She shook her head. “. . . many years.”

“Lady Huldah told me of your history,” he said carefully. “But what is the truth?”

Marrh looked up at him sharply.

“I was young and foolish. I loved a man, but we could not be. I broke our engagement. I . . . it suddenly felt wrong. It was wrong. He would not accept it. He publicly denounced my honor. Slavery was the least harsh punishment my father could bargain for.”

“Hold this.” Thorin unrolled the scroll and placed one side in her hand. He pulled the other side away and she flinched as the ripping echoed within the stone walls. “You are free, Myrrh.” She touched his shoulder and threw her arms around his neck, weeping. Thorin held her close. “You are Myrrh now. Marrh was the slave. You are the lady.”

“Oh . . . she told you that, too?”

“She did.” He smiled. “She said you are of higher birth than she.”

“Yes. I was.”

Thorin pulled away.

“Myrrh . . . I know you do not know me. I know you have every reason to distrust me. But please believe me when I tell you that I love you. I would be honored if you would marry me.”

“I . . . what will your queen say?”

“I have no queen.”

“Your harem will reject me.”

“I have no harem, either.” He took her hands and held them to his heart. “You would be my bride, my queen, and my only.”

She looked down, fighting tears.

“I have _nothing_ to give you. No dowry; my family is long dead. . . No honor. . .”

“You have your love.”

“My lor--”

“Thorin.”

She was still, then nodded slowly.

“Thorin . . . I do not know that I _can_ love.”

“If I teach you . . . would you desire to learn?”

Tears fell from under her scarf.

“I would give anything to love you.”

“You must give me nothing but your word.” She nodded, but he gently placed his hand on her cheek, angling her face towards his. “I mean every word when I say you must give me nothing but your word.” Her brows furrowed until she grasped his meaning. “I will strive to win your heart, Myrrh.”

He stopped and looked at her closely.

“Your names . . . Marrh I understand. But Myrrh . . . what is that meaning?”

“Myrrh is a precious oil. It is produced by . . . marring a particular tree in Rhûn. It is difficult work, but it is the oil used. . .”

“Used in what?”

“. . . Used to anoint kings.”

“Oh Myrrh. . .” He held her and kissed her cheek, treasuring the softness of her skin when she did not flinch. “No matter what riches I own as king, you will always be my greatest glory.”

-

Myrrh sighed, nestled in the warm quilts. A hesitant knock on the chamber doors roused her. “Yes?” she called, sitting up. The door groaned open and she could feel the cooler evening air rush in. She pulled the quilts tighter around her as footfalls neared. Recognizing Thorin’s gait, she smiled.

“Did I wake you?”

“No. What are you doing here?”

“I want to show you something.”

“Thorin, I . . . I can’t.”

Her cheek was met by a gentle palm and she leaned into his caress.

“No man may see your eyes until you’re wed,” he said. “And no man will.” She arched an eyebrow. “I promise.”

Myrrh touched his hand and tried to imagine what he looked like, what color his eyes were.

“I trust you.” He gently pulled her out of the bed, but then stopped. “What’s wrong?”

“. . . Trousers?”

“Unacquainted with eastern customs, m’lord?” she said lightly, taking his arm.

“Balin couldn’t teach me everything,” he replied, leading her out.

“Balin . . . shorter, older? Shuffles a bit when he walks?”

“You’ve met him?”

“I’ve been here for two months; you can’t very well hide me from everyone.”

“Did he visit you?”

“He did.” She was quiet. “I didn’t know your father and the King . . . objected.”

“Myrrh--”

“No, I understand; I would object, too.”

“What did Balin say?”

“He said nothing about that. We just talked.”

“How did you find out?”

“I’m blind for all practical purposes, not deaf.” She faced him. “When were you going to tell me?”

“Honestly, I wasn’t going to. I thought I could change their minds.”

Myrrh held his arm tighter and rested her temple against his shoulder.

“Thorin, you cannot protect me from everything forever,” she said softly.

A gust of cold air caught her by surprise, and Thorin turned, shielding her.

“I know.” His voice was quiet, and she reached up to touch his cheek. He sighed and Myrrh gently traced his beard, lips, nose, and eyebrows.

“What color are your eyes, Thorin?”

“Blue.”

She smiled.

“I’ve never seen anyone with blue eyes before.”

“Never?”

“No.”

“What color are yours?”

She opened her mouth, but then furrowed her eyebrows and closed it.

“I don’t remember.”

“What?”

“I haven’t seen a mirror since. . .” She pointed to the scarf. “Since this.” The air grew colder and bit at her skin. It seemed more open, more fragrant. “Where are we?”

“The old High Ramparts.”

“Whatever for?”

“Have you ever seen the _Harûn Atamanel Gimil_?”

“No, what is it?”

He moved behind her and gently tilted her head upwards.

“Look.”

Myrrh pulled the scarf over her head and gasped. Ribbons of silver, green, and red light twisted through the indigo sky. Stars glittered brightly in the absence of the moon. She leaned back against Thorin’s chest and he wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on the top of her head.

“I adore you,” he whispered. She pulled the scarf back down and turned to face him.

“I love you.”

“. . . You do?”

“Thorin. . . I would rather spend a moment with you than a thousand lifetimes alone.”


	5. Wanderers

“Myrrh . . . you’re cold as ice. . .”

“I’m well.”

Thorin’s chamber doors closed behind them.

“You’re trembling.” He gently ran his hands along her bare arms. “My love,” he whispered, “are you frightened. . . ? Of me?”

“No,” she protested. “Not of you.” She turned, reaching out a hand for the bed. Her fingers met the linen and she exhaled slowly. “Never of you.”

Thorin led her away from the bed and held her close.

“That is not why I wed you this day,” he murmured. “I have told you, my love . . . you need give me nothing.”

“At least let me give you this.” She brought his hands behind her head, resting them on the knot that bound the scarf. “It is yours to remove.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling softly. “I want to look my husband in the eyes and--” Her voice broke and deepened as she continued. “. . . And tell him that I love him.”

He led her to the lit hearth and kissed her cheek as he untied the scarf, slowly pulling it away. Her eyes were closed and she crinkled her nose, running her finger along the bridge as her lips pricked into a grin.

“I’m sorry, you’ve no idea how long that’s itched.” Thorin laughed and kissed her neck.

“ _This_ is why I married you,” he said lowly. He pulled away and stopped a breath away from her face.

 The flames lit the gold marbled within her emerald irises.

“Oh Myrrh. . .”

“What?”

“Your eyes. . .”

Her brows drew together in a panic.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“. . . They’re green.” She smiled, turning against the light. Her irises glowed for a moment as she regarded him.

“You’re not at all what I expected,” she said quietly. Thorin looked down.

“In what way?”

“My people would worship you as a god.”

“What?”

“You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.” She put her hand over his heart and stroked his beard. “Thorin,” she said, her eyes flicking up to his. His throat was suddenly dry, so he nodded. “I love you.”

-

Thorin rolled over and wrapped his arms around Myrrh. Her skin was warm and her breath soft against his cheek.

“Good morning, my Queen.” She stirred and nestled closer, then suddenly sat up. “Myrrh, it’s me--”

“Listen.”

The morning was still.

“What is it?” She shrank back against him, and he kissed her neck, feeling her surging pulse against his lips. “Myrrh?”

“ _Wurm_ ,” she whispered.

“A what?”

She turned and looked at him, her eyes brimming with tears.

“A dragon.”

Thorin leapt out of bed, pulling on trousers as he ran to the balcony.

“Mahal save us.” He ran back to Myrrh and kissed her desperately. “Stay here; I’ll muster the army--”

“Thorin.” Her soft voice was broken. “You cannot fight a dragon.”

“Of course we--”

“No. You cannot. We must move everyone to safety.”

“And you would let the beast have our home?”

“I would return with appropriate weaponry and kill the beast in its slumber, as is wise.”

“The Black Arrows,” he murmured. She nodded as he sheathed his sword. Myrrh pulled on her clothes and strapped on two swords.

“What is the safest route to bring out the women and children?”

“Find Dís; she’ll show you. We’ll hold off the dragon as long as we can.”

“And your father and the King?”

“They will protect your caravan.” He caught her arm and stroked her cheek. “Take every care,” he murmured. Myrrh kissed him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“If you’re not out when we are, I’m coming in for you.”

“Don’t, Myrrh.”

“No, Thorin. If this is to end in fire, then we shall all burn together.”

-

“Thank Mahal; I couldn’t find you!” Dís had tied back her raven locks and was armed with a bow and quiver. “We must take them around to the westward gate. I will lead them; be sure no one falls behind.”

The halls suddenly shook at the core and loosened arches crumbled and fell, drowning screams and marching orders.

“Daughters!” Thrór ran towards them, sword in hand.

“Where is the King?” Myrrh shouted.

“Is he not with you?”

“We haven’t seen him,” Dís called.

A flood of women and children ran into the western wing as the walls began to cave. Fire blazed behind the in long bursts and Myrrh waved Dís onward. A woman stumbled over the rubble and fell forwards, clutching a bundle tightly. Myrrh ran to her and rolled her over. Shards of stone were embedded in her skull, and her eyes darted about frantically.

“Can you walk?”

“Take her,” she said hoarsely, holding up the bundle. There were no cries.

“But can you w--”

“You look kind,” she said. Myrrh stopped. “Will you care for her?”

“I promise,” she murmured, holding the babe to her chest. Soft, ragged breaths fell against her skin as the woman’s head dropped backwards, the solid thud deafening amid the chaos. Myrrh stood slowly and kissed the baby’s forehead before running after the caravan.

-

“We cannot hold this hall!” Ferin coughed as black smoke rose behind them. “We must fall back with the soldiers we have!” Thorin nodded.

“Go with the caravan; I will follow.”

“Mahal guard you,” Ferin called, taking up his shield. He ran to the west wing, holding it over his head as keystones fell. Thorin signaled the remaining soldiers and waved them after Ferin.

_Grandfather . . . where are you?_

-

“You cannot return, daughter!”

Thráin held Myrrh’s arm as she twisted to escape him.

“I gave him my word!” Her scream echoed off the scorched walls as she fell to her knees. “I gave him my word. . .” Dís looked to her father, then back to Myrrh.

“Daughter,” he said, kneeling beside her, “you are a lady deserving of my son. I . . . I did not think so before.” She looked up at him numbly. “But you cannot go after him. Thorin is a capable--”

A handful of soldiers burst from the gate followed by Ferin as stale, sour smoke billowing out with him.

“My sisters!” he gasped, clinging to them desperately.

“Where is Thorin?” Myrrh asked.

“He went to---” He stopped, caught in a fit of choking. “The King,” he said hoarsely. “He went to find the King.”

Thráin turned.

“What?”

“We never saw him.”

Bitter disdain flashed in Thráin’s eyes.

“He is in the treasure vaults.”

Myrrh grabbed a nearby sword ran through the gate.

-

“Thrór!” Thorin ran through the empty halls, shieldless. He passed by the Great Hall, stopped, and came back. It was cold and dark.

_He’s taken the Arkenstone. . . Old fool._

Coughing from behind him stole his attention and he turned as Myrrh ran into him, holding him tightly.

“What are you---”

“You didn’t come back.”

Thorin kissed her forehead, rubbing her back.

“You came for me. . .”

“I gave you my word.” He nodded, tears cooling his smoke-filled eyes.

“I must find Thrór.”

“Your father says he’s gone to the treasure vaults.”

“Then we must fetch him now.” A sharp roar rose from under them. “Or the dragon will find him first.”

-

Myrrh sprinted for the gate, pulling a begrudging Thrór behind her. Thorin followed, one hand on the King’s back, pushing him ahead. They reached the cleaner air, and Thráin ran towards them and pulled his father away.

Thorin suddenly looked up to the hills west of them. An army had amassed, led by two silver-haired elves, each astride a moose.

“Help us!” he cried, waving his arms. The younger elf looked to the elder, who regarded them coolly.

Myrrh followed her husband’s gaze.

“Please!”

The elf slowly turned and retreated, his army following suit.

Thorin’s shoulders slumped and Myrrh’s blood ran cold.

“ _Scheiß alte Narr!_ ” she shouted, her broken voice echoing off the empty walls. Dís approached her slowly, returning the wailing infant to her arms. Ferin’s smoke-encrusted face bore scars cut by tears and Thrór sat nearby in a stupor. Balin ran to Thráin and Thorin.

“Sires,” he asked quietly, “where go we now?”

-

Broken wails were hardly muffled by the canvas as Thorin emerged from the King’s tent. Myrrh looked up from the baby when he came close.

“He weeps for his people,” she said softly.

“No. Not for his people.” Thorin’s voice trembled with rage. “For his _gold_. For his beloved Arkenstone.” His gaze came to rest on the baby. “He cares not for his people. His mind is tainted with a sickness we cannot cure.”

“How many. . .” She shifted, holding the babe closer. “How many did not escape?” Thorin helped her up and led her to a smaller tent.

“We  cannot know.” He lifted the tent flap and sat heavily. “Too many. Entire clans have not been counted as among us.” Myrrh sat beside him, still cradling the infant. Thorin stroked its cheek, but drew back when he felt the still coolness. “Myrrh--”

“The children who have been made orphans; what will become of them?”

“They will be cared for and guarded in the center of the camp,” he said, reaching for the baby.

“And the mothers and fathers robbed of their children?”

“We will comfort them.”

He took the baby from her and gently closed its eyes. He rose to leave with it, but a sob broke the silence.

“Thorin . . . _no_ . . .”

He came back, knelt, and took her hand and kissed it gently.

“Myrrh . . . come with me. It will help.”

-

Myrrh was silent as they returned from the small grave. Thorin disrobed and all but collapsed on the quilt spread over the grass. Myrrh stepped out of her tattered dress and sat beside him, her back straight and stiff. He reached for her hand, and her breath – uneven and sharp – betrayed her. Thorin forced himself up and cradled her to his chest as she wept. His tears mingled with hers, and she rubbed his bare back as he kissed her cheek.

“Our people need a heart as good as yours,” he murmured. “To comfort them and help them mourn.” She looked up at him and he kissed her, his nose pressing against her cheek. “I need a heart as good as yours.”

“I want to be one of them,” she said finally, running a hand down his hair.

“You are one of us, beloved.”

“No, one of them. I want to bear supplies as they will. I want to help shepherd the children and put my education to good use. I want to be useful.” Thorin smiled in the darkness.

“You will be counted as more precious to gold and diamonds to them,” he whispered, pulling her down slowly against him. “Sleep, my darling. I’ll keep watch.” She snorted, wiping her tears away.

“No you won’t,” she said softly as slumber took him.

The last bit of starlight left her as she slipped into oblivion.


	6. Cloven Hearts

Myrrh woke to the sound of moving armor and footfalls in the tent. The sun had not yet risen, but Thorin’s armor glinted in the candlelight. She got up and lifted the candle.

“Thorin…”

“I didn’t mean to wake you, beloved.”

“Is this wise?” she asked softly. “Your army is not well-equipped, nor at full strength.”

He sighed deeply and turned to her.

“I must support Thrór’s decision. We cannot allow ourselves to fracture. And we have a chance.”

“But the dragon-”

He cupped her face gently.

“My love, I will return to you. I have returned to you every night for the past seven years. I will not be brash now for your sake.” His hands slid down her sides to hold her rounded belly and he kissed her tenderly. Myrrh gazed up at him, her eyes moist with worry.

“Are Ferin and Kalín going with you…?” He nodded, his eyes growing sharper. “But Dís… she is so close to delivering…”

“I know. Kalín wishes to fight alongside his father, and Balin could never say no to him.”

“He knows she’s close, does he not?”

“He promised her he would return.”

“As you have.”

The silence hung between them, thick and heavy, before Thorin wrapped his arms around her and held her tight.

“By Mahal, I give you my word I will return.”

Myrrh choked back her tears, stroking his hair.

“I’ll wait for you in Dís’s tent.” She kissed his wet cheek and rubbed his back. “I’ll wait for you.”

-

Dís moaned loudly, sweat beading her brow. Myrrh dipped a cloth in cool water and patted her face gently.

“Something is not right…”

Myrrh held her hand.

“The baby is safe. I know it hurts, sister.”

“Not the baby…” Dís stared feverishly at the tent flaps, as if she could see beyond them. “Kalín.”

Myrrh bit her lip.

“He gave you his word.”

“It’s been more than a day.” Myrrh nodded.

“I know.”

Dís gasped hoarsely and cried out as her body trembled with another contraction.

“Matim?” Fíli peeked in through the tent flap, his eyes wide and his young face still childish despite his burgeoning beard. Myrrh glanced at Dís for approval before urging him inside. “Matim, where is papa?”

“On his way back, Fíli, love…”

Dís’s words faded into breathlessness as she groaned, Myrrh’s hands anxiously waiting under the quilt, and she looked to her nephew.

“Fíli, could you get some water from the river?”

His face brightened, eager to be useful, and he dashed out with the stone bowl. Dís sighed in relief, still breathing heavily.

“Myrrh… he’s gone.”

“Just to the river.”

“Kalín. He’s gone.”

“He’ll return to you and your children, Dís.”

She stared at Myrrh’s belly.

“Kalín… Ferin… Thrór, Thráin… Thorin… they’re gone, Myrrh.”

Sobs shook her body and she screamed, her child crowning.

“Dís, they’re going to return.”

Her once silver eyes were lackluster as she gazed past Myrrh, past the tent. Myrrh felt the baby drop into her hands, and she lifted the quilt.

“You have another son.”

Tears streamed down Dís’s face as she gazed at him.

“Kíli.”

“Kíli.”

Fíli ran back in, spilling water all over himself. Myrrh gently took the bowl from him and placed it on the cot, cleaning off the newborn gently.

“Is that my brother?”

Dís beckoned for her older son and he came close.

“Yes… this is Kíli.” She looked at him and stroked his beard softly. “Will you take care of him for your father and I?”

“Yes, matim.” She smiled a little and sat up just enough to kiss his forehead. “Matim? Where are you going?”

“I’m going to be with your father, Fíli. We love you both.”

“Can we come with you?”

“No, love… not today. Not for a long time, I hope.”

“Who will we go with?”

Dís looked pained and Myrrh put a hand on Fíli’s shoulder.

“You can come with me. Both of you.”

Dís grasped her hand.

“Love them for me. Please… love them.”

Her hand fell and it was only then Myrrh realized Kíli was wailing and Fíli had run out of the tent.

“They’re back!” he shouted, running back in and tugging on Myrrh’s skirt. She stood slowly, her vision wet and blurred. She stepped out of the tent with the squalling newborn in her arms and nearly ran into Thorin, who was covered in blood and dirt. She hugged him tight, sobbing softly into his chainmail as he stood in shock, staring into his sister’s tent.

“Dís…”

“I’m sorry, Thorin…I’m so sorry…” She looked past him, searching for Kalín. “Where are…”

“Dead.” His flat voice broke and he held her close as he wept. She followed him back to their tent, Fíli silently clinging to her skirts. He took off his armor and sat heavily on their pallet, unresponsive as Fíli climbed into his lap and fell asleep. Myrrh felt her womb contract with grief and tension as she sat beside him, Kíli cradled in her arms. Thorin finally looked down at the baby.

“What did she name him?”

“Kíli.”

“For his father.” He nodded to himself and rubbed Fíli’s back as he shifted. “They’re ours now.”

“Yes.” She looked down at Kíli, who yawned, stirring.

“Do you have… are you able to feed him?”

“I should be...” She leaned forward as he helped her disrobe and the baby quickly started to suckle. “Thorin?” He looked at her, his face lined with worry and sorrow. “Are you the king now…?” He nodded.

“They will not follow me.”

“Of course they will.”

“I should have died.”

Myrrh stared at him.

“Thorin… tell me what happened.”

-

Kíli was sleeping in a makeshift crib beside Fíli as Thorin wept into Myrrh’s bosom. She shed her tears silently, stroking his matted locks slowly and rubbing his back.

“He told me to run…”

“He wanted you to preserve his line.”

“He isn’t gone.”

Myrrh stopped.

“But… he didn’t return with you-”

“Thráin is not dead.” He stood up. “He was not counted among the dead. He was taken.”

He turned away, gripping a wooden chest tightly, and Myrrh knew better than to press. She got up slowly and hugged him from behind. His shoulders fell and he began to sob again.

“They will follow you… and even if no one does, I will.”


	7. Heirs for the Heirless

Myrrh closed her eyes as the old healer scuffled into the bedroom.

“Myrrh… this is your fifth…”

“I know… I… I just want to be sure before I tell him.”

She came closer and touched Myrrh’s forehead.

“Does he have any idea?”

A sob broke from her lips and she wept as the clanging from the smithy behind their house grew steadily louder.

“I’m sure he knows…”

The healer lifted the blankets entangled around Myrrh’s legs slowly and grimaced.

“I’ll prepare some water for a bath, m’lady--”

“Please… please don’t tell him.” Tears streamed down Myrrh’s face as she reached for the healer’s hand. “But can you tell me if I… if I _could_ carry his child?”

The healer pulled a short stool to the bed and sat heavily.

“My sweet daughter… Each time you grow more than the first, but that does not bode well. The events will only grow worse.”

“But I… I carried this one for nearly six months…”

The healer grasped her hands and looked brokenhearted.

“But not the nine, my daughter.”

-

Thorin let the hammer drop and turned away from the anvil and red-hot horseshoe, bringing his hand to his forehead, caught between the need to sob and the urge to vomit. The side door to their house closed and he looked up anxiously at the healer, who was carrying an empty bucket.

“Please… how is she?”

The healer looked down and Thorin followed her gaze as the hot, salty tears came. She rubbed his shoulder gently before moving to the well. Soft, broken sobs came from their bedroom window and he went inside slowly.

“Myrrh…?”

She looked up at him for a heartbeat before turning her body away, weeping into the pillow.

“Myrrh, I--”

“Thorin… I’m so sorry…”

He came closer, but Fíli’s footsteps approached and Myrrh looked over her shoulder, horrified. Thorin turned and led Fíli out before he could even come in.

“Uncle, is Aunta ill?”

“Where’s Kíli?”

“Playing with his bow.”

“Do you want to go hunting with me? Both of you?”

Fíli grinned and ran to get Kíli as Thorin came back into his bedroom, only to find the healer helping Myrrh into a tub, her legs covered in blood. Myrrh stared up at him as she held her empty womb, and Thorin wanted nothing more than to hold her.

“I’m taking the boys hunting.”

She nodded slightly. He stepped closer and she shrank back against the healer. Thorin touched her cheek lightly and she wrapped her arms around his neck, sobbing. He held her and realized how small she was against his body as he stroked her hair. His face was wet when he pulled away, and he didn’t bother forcing a smile.

They knew this song and dance too well.

“I want you to rest, beloved.” She nodded, more vulnerable than he’d ever seen her. “I love you.” He held her hands gently and kissed them. “I love you, Myrrh.”

Her voice was broken and hoarse, but she’d said the words enough for him to know them as her lips moved.

_I love you, Thorin._

-

“Is Aunta sick?” Kíli’s big eyes and still-clean face broke Thorin’s silence and he turned away from the fallen log to face them both.

“Aunta is feeling very poorly, yes.”

“Why?” Fíli’s eyes were sharp and curious. “Is it the baby?”

Thorin felt his eyes grow moist, but didn’t hide the tears.

“Yes. It’s the baby.”

“Is the baby well?”

He pulled them close as a sob broke free.

“No.”

“When is the baby coming?” Kíli nestled into his uncle’s arms. “It’ll be better then.”

Fíli leaned over to his brother and whispered, but Thorin could hear it as clearly as if he had shouted it.

“ _I don’t think the baby’s coming_.”

Kíli drew back, confused.

“Where did it go? Aunta has it.”

Thorin held them close.

“Did Aunta ever tell you where your mother and father went?”

“To the Halls,” Kíli answered promptly.

“Yes.”

“Is… is that where the baby’s gone?”

Thorin nodded, his throat dry.

“They always go without us.” Kíli looked at Fíli. “You wouldn’t go without me, would you?”

Fíli glanced at Thorin before answering.

“No. But I would go first. Just barely.”

“But Aunta’s not going with the baby,” Kíli said, starting to look panicked. “She’s staying. She’s staying with us?”

Thorin nodded.

“She’s staying with us.”

Fíli looked up.

“Uncle?” Thorin shifted his gaze from the ground to the boy. “Will she get well?”

Thorin sighed heavily.

“Aunta has always wanted children. And… she has been told she must have a child.”

“Because you are the king?” Kíli looked up at him.

“Yes.”

“May we… call her matim?”

Thorin smiled and held them close, tears falling.

“I think she would love that.”

“But I want to call Uncle papa.” Kíli looked cross. “You promised you’d ask that, too.” Fíli looked exasperated and a little embarrassed. Thorin smiled and cupped their faces.

“Oh, my sons.” Their faces brightened a bit. “Matim cannot have a child. But she loves you more than anything. And she would be pleased to call you her sons, as would I.”

-

Myrrh watched them walk out, tears in her eyes.

“They called me ‘matim’…” Thorin nodded, closing the door, and getting into bed with her. “Did you tell them to…?”

“No. They wanted to. They call me ‘papa’ now.”

Myrrh turned slightly towards him, wincing as she moved her hips.

“Thorin… I’m sorry I cannot give you an heir…”

He caressed her face gently, pulling himself closer to her.

“My beloved… you have weaned and raised two boys better than I ever could have alone.” She smiled softly. “And you are my queen.”

“But… you’ve not been coronated…”

Thorin smiled, running his hands along her body.

“I would rather be a pauper with your love than King Under the Mountain with all the gold in Middle Earth alone.”

Myrrh kissed him softly, weak and worn.

“You’ll never be without my love.”

“I should pray not.”

“Thorin… do you still want to love me…?”

“Oh my beloved…” Thorin kissed her lips deeply, holding her close. “There will never be a day I don’t.”


End file.
